


The Second Prince

by HDDrabble



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, knight Iwa-chan and prince Oikawa, mainly an Iwaoi fic but the other ships show up eventually, p much all the haikyuu chars show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDDrabble/pseuds/HDDrabble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi is captain of second prince Oikawa Tooru's royal guard. But with first prince Ushijima Wakatoshi set to inherit the throne in two weeks, a crush on his childhood best friend- on his prince- is the least of his worries. (Ok, he wouldn't say the least. Have you seen that fluffy brown hair?) </p><p>Yes, this is the knight Iwa-chan bodyguard AU I always wanted, so badly that I had to write it myself. Royal politics, idiots in love, captains keeping their captain titles in such a different context hohoho. This'll be multi-chapter with a cohesive plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Prince

**Author's Note:**

> These damn volleydorks made me inhabit a whole medieval kingdom with them, how dare they... I apologize in advance to Iwa-chan, I hurt you because I love you. And because you love Oikawa. 
> 
> Also, blame SuggestiveScribe and her beautiful fic Conquering the Great King for pushing me even further down the IwaOi hell hole.

He looked flawless as always, the prick.

               In front of Iwaizumi, with his back facing the young knight, sat Oikawa. The curls of his soft brown hair—how did he manage to keep them so damn perfect, in this breeze?—brushed against the back of his long, pale neck, just above the hem of his tunic. Turquoise velvet tunic, of course. Oikawa’d never be caught dead in the scratchy cotton general issue that was sticking to Iwaizumi at the moment. But then, he was a prince. And he’d never let anyone forget that.

               Iwaizumi smirked, happy to stand behind the royals as the ceremony began.

They were on a risen stage in the central square of Castletown, and out in front of Iwaizumi it seemed like the whole Kingdom of Miyagi had come out to celebrate the start of the festivities. Thousands of families pressed into the square, children on their fathers’ shoulders, faces split wide with awe and pudgy fingers pointing up at the magnificent scene of the royal family lined up in a row for all to see. It smelled like the caramel apples sold in Baker’s Lane, except even stickier, mixed with the smell of sweat and excitement.

“People of Miyagi,” called a quiet voice. In front of Iwaizumi, in front of the whole kingdom, a cool, dark-haired beauty stood up from her throne at the center of the stage. Her dress was a deep indigo, puffed sleeves cuffing pale, slender hands that rested lightly together, clasped in front of her as she addressed the crowd. Iwaizumi couldn’t see Queen Kiyoko’s face from his position, but the sudden hush that fell like a sudden downpour over the eager townspeople said it all. A little girl in her mother’s arms squeaked, “The Queen, mommy, it’s the Queen!”

Oikawa looked sideways from his position on the Queen’s left, the seat of the second prince. Under the midday sun his profile was perfectly drawn out for Iwaizumi, all soft lines with a regal tilt. He smiled at his mother, and even just half of that smile did unexplainable things to Iwaizumi’s heart. Ah, the prince was in fine form today, even if he did dress like a prick. Iwaizumi would give him a pass—they were from different worlds, after all.

Queen Kiyoko spoke again, her voice slightly louder this time, but still an even tone. A slow instruction the audience held their breath so as not to miss.

“It has been five years since my husband, the King, passed away. With his passing the kingdom was left for me to cradle, and to nurture, but not to keep. All our boys grew up strong and able, each with a destiny greater than any I could imagine, a duty to this kingdom. To you all. And today, a fortnight before my eldest son, Ushijima, turns twenty-one and comes of age to inherit, we gather to celebrate all that has been. And all that is to come.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, great wolf-whistles and squeals that filled the market square in the hazy glow of midday. Usually midday just meant high noon—hot, time for work. But today, this hour, began two weeks of celebrations. It’s not every day a new king is crowned, especially one as anticipated as the Warrior King.

Speak of the devil. Iwaizumi’s expression didn’t change, but his hand twitched just slightly as the man himself rose from the throne just to the right of his mother.

Ushijima. Watching Ushijima stand was like seeing a statue unfurl, stone coming to life. Inexorable. Iwaizumi imagined he could see the man’s strong, roped muscles even through his thick robes. No cape for Ushijima—his subjects called him the Warrior King for good reason. Always ready, that one.

Iwaizumi shifted, fixed his eyes back on Oikawa. Ushijima cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for your support. The time for speeches of politics will come, but not today.” He rose his hands up, long, solid forearms spread like an eagle’s wingspan, inciting the crowd. “Now, let the celebrations begin!”

With a resounding crack, fireworks erupted from all corners of the town square. The crowd roared as fizzing arcs of red and white soared across the sky, crossing and twirling, raining sparks and ash down onto smiling, upturned faces. A band struck a lively jig, the music swaying through the smoky air. And Ushijima proffered a hand to the Queen, who rose gracefully, her slender fingers disappearing inside the much larger man’s grip. Oikawa stood as well, was about to turn, but then paused.

Iwaizumi held back a laugh, biting his bottom lip. The third and final son of Queen Kiyoko, Prince Kenma, was still seated, staring off over the crowd. Iwaizumi didn’t need to see his face to picture those glazed cat’s eyes, narrowed against the sun as if accusing it of not being a nice stone ceiling. Oikawa poked Kenma with a finger, and the smaller boy startled, rising to his feet without a thought.

“Ah, my poor Kenma,” sighed an amused voice to Iwaizumi’s left. He turned his head slightly, and of course there stood Kuroo, tall and arrogant as always. His ridiculous hair was crushed, thank the lord, by the ceremonial helmet of a Prince’s captain. A metal cat wound its way around the royal family crest blazoned on Kuroo’s breastplate, the symbol of the third son of Queen Kiyoko. Iwaizumi pressed his lips into a thin line that might’ve been a smile, if you knew him well enough to look closely. Kuroo’s lips curled in return into a shit-eating grin. Iwaizumi supposed fifteen years was enough.

“It’s a ceremony, Kuroo. Kenma’s a prince, he’s got to get used to them at some point.”

Kuroo shook his head emphatically, eyes only on the shortest royal as the whole retinue turned and began walking back towards their guards and the back exit off the stage. Kenma’s hair swung with every step, his hands unsure as they swung at his sides.

“They wouldn’t even let him take a book up—look, he’s too pitiful with empty hands.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “If you think Kenma’s sad bookless for an hour, imagine Oikawa after an hour of not being allowed to talk.”

Kuroo grinned. “Not to mention playing second fiddle to dearest big brother.”

“Shut up, you ass.”

Kuroo hummed under his breath, his voice sing-song. “You’re only angry because I’m righttt.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes narrowed, but his retort died on his lips as a certain head of light brown hair neared. He fell in step behind his prince, Kuroo and his antics immediately irrelevant, a blank memory shoved aside. Iwaizumi’s eyes flicked to the rooftops of the buildings nearby. One, five, thirteen—all the crown’s guards were in place, the telltale glint of armor in the sunlight marking their positions. The roar of the crowd’s cheers were settling into pleased chatter, just a gurgling undertone to the music as the crowd began to disperse towards the vendors on Baker’s Lane.

Movement to the right. Iwaizumi’s eyes flicked towards the western gate, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. But it was just the performer’s troupe hired to entertain next on the stage.

“Is there an assassin acrobat this year?” Oikawa murmured. Iwaizumi snapped his head back front, but Oikawa was still facing forward, like he’d said nothing. Iwaizumi held back a grin, and his shoulders relaxed.

“It’s too early to tell, m’lord.”

“Ah, what a treasure Iwa-chan, getting “m’lord”ed so early in the afternoon.”

Really, Iwaizumi had to get a better handle on this run-away smile threatening to drown itself in the high, pouting tone of Oikawa’s voice. Iwaizumi dropped his voice into a whisper, leaning with his lips close to Oikawa’s ear, a serious expression on display. A Prince’s captain discussing _very serious_ matters with his master.

“Dumbass in the castle, M’lord when you’re sitting on display for everyone to overhear.”

Oikawa snorted, his shoulders trembling with laughter under his fancy clothes. “I need to get out more.”

“God, please don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

Iwaizumi smirked, leaning away from his prince as the procession left the square, winding through the cobblestone street away from the central square of Castletown. On either side of the uniformed guards that swallowed the four royals, stone houses rose up, their slanted roofs all pointed down as the retinue headed higher, higher towards the looming inner walls of Miyagi Castle. Trumpets sounded their approach, a wave of scurrying guards atop the walls making ready for their arrival. With a creaking groan that befit the two hundred year-old metal, the iron portcullis was raised, the clangor of chains a steady welcome.

“Make way, for the royal family of the great Kingdom of Miyagi!” The flagbearer’s deep voice boomed out, and Iwaizumi watched the flag overhead, just at the front of the procession, crack smartly in the wind. The sight of the royal crest made the sensitive skin at the back of his neck, just below his hairline, burn. His hand rose absentmindedly, and he rubbed at the spot as they passed through the narrow entryway and into the first courtyard.

They filled the courtyard, royal guards still in tight formation, until the moment the portcullis dropped back into place—a deep tremor through the thick soles of Iwaizumi’s boots—and the great oaken gate slammed shut. For a moment all was quiet, and then a high voice rose above the courtyard, her easy grace unmistakable.

“You’re dismissed,” Queen Kiyoko ordered, and every man in uniform snapped their hands up in salute.

Then a low chatter broke out, the stiffness falling out of the soldiers’ shoulders as most of the retinue began to disperse.

Iwaizumi glanced over towards Queen Kiyoko. But unlike most his eyes didn’t rest on her long, sleek hair, pulled back so half fell down her back like a wedding veil and half wound in intricate braids about her head in imitation of the delicate crown that nestled atop. His eyes weren’t for her slender hands held together, the smooth steps of her walk. In fact, they weren’t for her at all, though he loved the Queen dearly. His eyes slid to the man at her side, a burly guardsman whose uniform was slightly nicer than the others, pressed blue fabric crisp, angles sharp and well fitted, collar cutting into the looser skin around his neck. The man’s iron eyes dared anyone looking, though, to comment that his skin was now more wrinkled than his uniform, though he wasn’t yet fifty.

The officer leaned towards Queen Kiyoko, his mouth whispering in her ear just as Iwaizumi had done moments earlier with his prince.

But somehow, Iwaizumi doubted this man was whispering anything but very serious matters.

“So, Iwa-chan,” drawled Oikawa, a light hand on his arm making him half-turn, eyes still cutting back towards the guard.

“Hah?”

Oikawa was standing side to side with him now, his eyes wide and shining—jesus, was it really possible for a grown-ass man to look like a puppy with a new ball? They were twenty, for chistssake.

               Oikawa smirked, like he knew exactly what Iwaizumi was thinking, and the shorter man tried not to blush. What would his underlings say to that, especially the new boy—

               “I sat perfectly well through the whole thing, hm? I even clapped for darling Ushiwaka.”

               Iwaizumi snorted. “What do you want, a pat on the head?”

               Oikawa pouted. “Please, Iwa-chan, my head is practically in the clouds when compared to what you can reach. You know, you may be able to cut circles around me with a sword, but I’ll still always be tallerrr.”

               “Three inches, Trash-kawa—“

               “Five centimeters!”

               Iwaizumi’s breath huffed out of him, and even he couldn’t tell whether it was more of a laugh or a groan.

               “That’s the same thing!”

               Oikawa grinned, that pompous I-won-this-argument smirk that made Iwaizumi want to shove him off one of those nice, high castle walls Oikawa loved to walk along so much. It would be easy, no one was in a better position to do the prince harm that the captain of his guard and personal bodyguard—

               Oikawa’s cheeks were flushed pink in the midday heat, and his eyes caught the brilliance of the sun as he leaned closer to Iwaizumi. The shorter man felt something thump, hard and clenched, in his chest.

               “Ah,” he groaned, pushing his fingers under his helmet and through his short, spikey black hair. “What do you want?”

               “Yay!” Oikawa cheered, doing a ridiculous little dance that did not befit his ten pounds of formalwear—a cape for christsake. Iwaizumi’s eyes got caught as the sunlight filtered through his prince’s hair, soft brown turned caramel, thick enough to stir with a finger. And Iwaizumi should not be having to hold his free hand in a fist at his side, should not be itching to reach up and pull that silly head of his five centimeters down and press his lips to what he was sure was the softest hair ever to—

               “So here’s the thing. Kenma just finished whatever book he’s been reading for the past week, and Kuroo estimates we’ve got exactly an hour and a half before he decides on his next one.” Oikawa leans his elbow onto Iwaizumi’s shoulder, grinning down at him as he spreads his other hand out like a vendor driving a hard bargain. “Which means we’ve got an hour to give our new boy the slip and rendezvous with the cats, taking Kenma out for the only fresh air he’s likely to see in the next few weeks.”

               Iwaizumi’s smile was genuine now, wide and smirking up at his prince. “You want me to help you play hooky from your guard detail so you can drag your poor younger brother from his books—“

               “Mean! Kenma secretly loves it, you know he’ll be fine as long as his Captain McDreamy is there with him.”

               Iwaizumi closed his eyes for a helpless second. These nicknames for Kuroo were getting out of hand.

               On the one hand, Iwaizumi was bound to get in more trouble if he helped Oikawa slip away. On the other hand, it would be a tempting break, not from the new boy himself, but from how Oikawa got with him around all the time…

               And as though thoughts really had commanding power, who would step forward in this moment but a helmet of flat, black hair, bangs trimmed into a perfect v between his eyes. His uniform, the same white tunic and turquoise surcoat as Iwaizumi’s, plus the familiar royal crest on his breastplate, this one with ivy winding about the symbol and polished to blinding capacity. The boy’s dark, intense eyes locked onto Oikawa first, and Iwaizumi felt the taller boy stiffen against him.

               Then Kageyama’s eyes snapped to his commander, and he saluted with sharp energy. 

               “Iwaizumi-san! I’ve come to relieve you for the hour. Your father wishes to speak with you.”

               Iwaizumi’s stomach dropped, and his lips hesitated on a reply. He’d known this was coming—his father’d been staring holes in the back of his head all week. For what reason, Iwaizumi wished to high hell that he knew.

               “Ah, Tobio-chan, here to spoil all the fun as usual, are we?” Oikawa’s sneer leaked into his words, making them cold and sharp. He leaned more heavily against Iwaizumi, using him like a wall he could coolly prop himself against to intimidate this poor, awkward bird of a boy. Iwaizumi sighed.

               “Oikawa, don’t be an ass.” It was practically a refrain at this point—the words had lost all meaning. Kageyama blinked, his eyes as blank as always. Really, sometimes Iwaizumi was worried the kid couldn’t think of anything but his orders and his training. Social cues flew right over those orderly bangs of his.

               Iwaizumi took a step away from Oikawa, and the taller boy slumped into himself, hand reaching out to tug on the sleeve that jutted out over Iwaizumi’s gauntleted hand.

               “Iwa-chan don’t leave me with the freshly sprouted chick, you know I might just push him off the wall and be done with it already,” Oikawa whined. Kageyama just stood there, unaffected at this point. The words had shocked him his first week, but the boy was admirably adaptive, even Oikawa would have to give him that.

               Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow at Oikawa. “I’m a soldier, Trash-kawa. This is my job. And I seem to remember that as a prince you supposedly have some sort of responsibilities as well…”

               Oikawa stuck out his tongue, let his eyes fall back to Kageyama with disdain. “Fine then. Come along, squirt, we’re heading over to visit my brother.”

               “We’re seeing Ushijima-sama?”

               “Geh, don’t sound so excited, I’m going to throw up! No, we’re seeing the infinitely more agreeable Kenma, you should count yourself lucky.”

               Iwaizumi walked away from the two, shaking his head. Kageyama had long been one of the castle guard’s most promising recruits, from a noble family with a long lineage of knights and seeming ready to surpass them all. Particularly able with a one-handed short sword or a bow, the kid was going places. Which was probably why Iwaizumi’s father, the army General, had placed Kageyama into Oikawa’s guard at only seventeen. The second and third princes’ guards were both an honor, but Oikawa’s position, and personality, meant his guards saw a thousand times more action than most soldiers see off the battlefield. The Ivy Guard was seen by most soldiers as a training ground for the elite, the last step up to the soon-to-be king. From excursions to the countryside to shopping trips hunting down remote, elusive goods, Oikawa presented a unique security dilemma that pushed his guards to their limits designing formations and contingencies, decoys and alternate routes and fail safes. But all the trouble polished his soldiers—it was said that nothing could phase a soldier after six months with Oikawa. Of course Ushijima didn’t like that people saying that—he was the most notorious opposition to Oikawa’s deviant princely behavior. The castle always seemed quieter after one of their screaming matches. Well, Oikawa was always the one who did all the screaming, but still.

               Iwaizumi shook off his thoughts as he moved around the last soldier, stepping deferentially up to the Queen and the gruff man at her side. Queen Kiyoko glanced to him first, and then his father’s eyes followed.

               Iwaizumi Atsushi was an imposing man, for all that he was only a few centimeters taller than Iwaizumi himself. The General of Miyagi’s army and captain of the old King’s guard, he’d earned the respect of every soldier a thousand times over by not missing a day of practice and personally training even the lowest of recruits. His already spotless reputation was made into a legend by his dogged loyalty to the Queen—the old King’s last words had been to Atsushi, his captain and best friend. “Take care of Kiyoko.” And, relinquishing his right to the more prestigious guard of Miyagi’s first prince and soon-to-be king, Atsushi instead headed the Queen’s Guard. 

               “Your Highness,” Iwaizumi spoke lowly, bowing to the Queen. Then he faced his father. “Sir,” he said, even softer. And bowed just as low.

               “Good,” the General grunted, bowing himself to the Queen. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, a must speak for a moment with my son.”

               “Of course,” Queen Kiyoko said, a rare smile blossoming across her face as she looked to her captain. The poor man who stepped up to replace the General almost fainted from the sight, his cheeks blushing a furious pink. The General gave him one of his signature narrow-eyed frowns, and the soldier straightened hastily. Then the General’s hand fell, heavy and iron-strong even without a gauntlet, on Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

               “Let’s step inside to talk,” he said, and Iwaizumi gritted his teeth. His father rarely had time to give him individual attention—the last moment like this had been when Oikawa’d convinced him to take the royal hunt off route after a particularly choice buck. Well, “off-route” meaning all the way to ten miles short of the troubled border with Niiyama. And by “convince” he meant Oikawa took off and he was the only one able to keep up with him. But he wasn’t making excuses—anything Oikawa did, as Captain of his guard, by definition Iwaizumi had let him do.

               Father and son walked through the open door to the central turret of the castle, passing through wide hallways hung with colorful wool tapestries and lit by high, wall-mounted braziers. The fire flickered, the occasional pop and the sounds of heavy bootsteps the only noise between the two walking figures. After a moment Iwaizumi began to realize where they were headed, and his stomach struggled to fight its way into his gut.

               What was so important that they would be walking all the way to the General’s own quarters, just adjacent to the Queen’s?

               Iwaizumi let out a quiet breath, squaring his shoulders. He would find out soon enough.

               It took ten minutes to walk into the depths of the castle, ten minutes in which the sightings of varied castle workers—cooks, guards, maids, messengers—began to dwindle. The deepest part of the castle was somewhat removed, and began to feel more like a home than a public arena. Queen Kiyoko’s personal touches became more pronounced—beautiful white flowers sat in simple glass vases on the occasional table, and large potted plants spiraled up from recently-wetted dirt in the corners by every entryway. The closer you got to her chambers, the more the castle began to resemble a greenhouse. The sweet smell of the greenery was soaked into the castle stone at this point, and the guards walking here seemed all the more alert, like the smell reminded them who they were protecting.

               When they finally got to a set of painted wooden doors, the General opened them himself, shooing off the guardsmen who had leapt forward to perform the honor.

               He beckoned Iwaizumi inside, shooting a scowl at the guardsman as he closed the door with a firm hand. The doors didn’t slam, but the noise reverberated throughout the mid-size room.

               “These young ones,” the General scowled, “no matter how many times I tell them, they try to treat me like some lily-livered court sycophant.”

               Iwaizumi swallowed a small grin. It really had been too long since he’d spoken to his father. Forgetting the usual admonition, the man was his hero, after all. Anyone who could stay so generally disgruntled even after so much exposure to the Queen was a god.

               “I’m sure they just mean to be respectful,” Iwaizumi said, voice now at usual volume. Inside the spartan room of the General—just one wall-length tapestry, solid blue—titles seemed to have less meaning.

               The General rolled his eyes. “Respect would be following their orders. But that’s not what I dragged you all the way here for, Hajime.”

               Iwaizumi stood a bit taller upon hearing his first name.

               The General narrowed his eyes, beckoned for Iwaizumi to take a seat in the lone, tall-backed armchair facing the bed. Iwaizumi hesitated—it was rude to be seated before a superior—but when the General threw up his hands and snorted in disgust, Iwaizumi quickly lowered himself down.

               Good old father, always ready to scowl at propriety.

               “Finally,” the man muttered. Then he walked in front of his son, leaned back against the bed, not quite sitting. And he stared, his dark brown eyes calculating.

               Ten seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Iwaizumi could feel a bead of sweat drip down the back of his neck, and he was happy he’d at least taken off his helmet upon entering the castle. It made for a comfortable weight in his lap.

               There was no way he would rush his father, so Iwaizumi settled in, meeting the older man’s gaze squarely. Iwaizumi Hajime did not back down from a challenge.

               Finally the General sighed, and gripped the frame of the bed with both hands.

               “Iwaizumi, you and I both know that I’m getting too old for my responsibilities.”

               Iwaizumi’s breath huffed out in shock, his eyes widening. “Sir, I don’t think anyone—“

               “Shut up. I can still thrash every rookie that comes into this place with a big head, and I’ve got more experience than anyone. I’m still an excellent guard captain—but my body’s not what it used to be. I’m made for giving orders now, and watching others take ‘em.”

               Iwaizumi’s lips parted, his thick eyebrows scrunched together in consternation. “But sir, you said it yourself, you still best everyone with a sword.”

               “I said rookies, Iwaizumi, not everyone.” The General gave a bitter sigh, ran a hand in a familiar gesture through his own spikey hair. “I haven’t trained seriously with our main guys for a while. My five corporals? You’re the only one who can hold a toe to them now.”

               Iwaizumi opened his mouth again to argue, but the General pushed himself off the bed, taking a step closer as he jabbed a finger with each name.

               “Sawamura Daichi—man’s unbeatable at hand-to-hand. Give him a weapon and he’ll beat your ass, disarm him and he’ll still beat your ass.”

               “Yes, but—“

               “Azumane Asahi. He sees himself as the weakest of the five, but that’s trash and everyone knows it. He handles that claymore like it’s a toothpick.”

               “I know, but—“

               “Aone Takanobu. The man’s an iron wall. Put him in armor and he’ll just grab your sword, blade-side, and rip it from your hands. Then beat you with it.”

               “I know, Sir. I know.”

               “Bokuto Koutaro. He’s a spaz with a weapon, yeah, and he’s also unpredictable, pulling off practically inhuman feats just when you think you’ve got ‘em.”

               “Yes.”

               “Kuroo Tetsuro. I trusted him with Kenma because besides crushing his opponent’s spirit with just that creepy grin of his, he’s a whirlwind of movement, and damn observant about everything.”

               “Sir, all I’m saying—“

               The General narrowed his eyes. “What you should be saying is “Yes, sir. You’re right.” I’m not egotistical, I know where I’m useful, and I won’t be useful as army general much longer.”

               Iwaizumi stilled, watching the old man’s eyes blaze at him. Everything between them was quiet for a moment, and then Iwaizumi sighed.

               “Yes, sir,” he said lowly, dropping his gaze to his lap. He stared as his hands, tightened into fists. He’d known this day would come, of course. But not now, not right when Ushijima was about to be crowned and everything was so hectic. A small voice inside of him said, not ever.

               The General nodded sharply, and began to pace around the bed. Long, firm strides that Iwaizumi watched with resignation.

               “You realize what I’m saying, Hajime?”

               Iwaizumi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve known I would succeed you my whole life, Sir.”

               The General nodded. Then, on the other side of the bed, he turned to face the blue tapestry.

               …..

               “Then you must know that you can’t spend any longer in Oikawa’s guard.”

               The words dropped, sharpened needles skewering his heart. Iwaizumi blinked stupidly for a moment, unfeeling. And then the bleeding began.

               He sprang from his chair in an instant, his helmet clattering to the ground. “Sir! You can’t mean—sir, we’ve been together since we were born.”

               The General turned back, his eyes hard. “The Iwaizumi family has served the royal line for generations. The position of general has been passed down father to son for as long as anyone cares to remember—“

               “And I don’t have a problem with that—“

               “Be quiet!” The General roared. Iwaizumi closed his mouth, but a panicked bird was still careening against his ribcage, and his hands were shaking. _Shaking_.

               Oikawa. Wind and laughter, the smell of rosemary on his windowsill and the heat of his fingers squeezing Iwaizumi’s. The regal tilt of his chin, his serious eyes when solving the kingdom’s problems, born to lead. The salt of his tears drying in lines on Iwaizumi’s tunic, his livid expression and spitting words as he ranted secret frustrations that shouldn’t concern the second prince, the prince who was never to lead. His soft hair, so close, his tired eyes as he lay on his bed, Iwaizumi standing just to the side. By his side. Where he belonged.

               Iwaizumi blinked rapidly, but the General didn’t give him time to regroup. The old man huffed, stepped back around the bed until he was chest to chest with his son, looking down with those same hard eyes.

               “The General of the army must serve the King, not the strategian prince.”

               “But you serve the Queen…”

               The General frowned, his eyes going cold as he clicked his tongue. “Because there is no King as of the moment, and because it is what was demanded of me by the royal line. And because the Queen does not go out on dangerous jaunts at all times of day, just looking to get her guards killed.”

               Iwaizumi winced, flinching back. Oikawa would never—the General didn't understand. No one understood. Oikawa's excursions, hatred of Kageyama, his damn pompous attitutde- everything behind it all, maybe even Oikawa himself didn't know but Iwaizumi did. Oikawa’s antics were improper, to be sure. Dangerous, definitely, but were they selfish?

               Iwaizumi let out a shaky breath, holding back the rage bottled in his trembling fists.

               “Sir, Oikawa is an indispensable leader and has solved many of the kingdom’s problems. If you would just look more closely—“

               “I don’t need to look any closer at a second prince, Hajime. And neither does the kingdom’s future General. You’ll be serving under Ushijima, not Oikawa.” The older man stopped for a moment, let his words sink in. Then he pursed his lips. “Which is why, as soon as he’s crowned, you’ll be switched over. You will be the guard captain of Ushijima Wakatoshi Shimizu, the King of Miyagi. Where you belong.”

               The world was breaking apart in front of Iwaizumi in great, jagged chunks. Pain lanced through his head, turning his fission fuzzy, making his father seem larger, a towering, inexorable future like the roof of the world that was being passed onto his shoulders. The crushing force would take everything that was Iwaizumi Hajime—every sight, every scent, every glancing touch and laughing memory of Oikawa Tooru, his prince, _his prince_ —and burn it all to dust.

               He couldn’t breathe.

               “Really, Hajime,” the General sighed, looking away from his son. Before he could turn completely, a flash of regret flared behind his eyes. But when he turned back they were stone again. “I always felt it was a mistake, putting you with Oikawa. You were the same age, of course, and you took to each other instantly, and at first I thought protecting your friend would increase your devotion to the royal family. But I miscalculated—you’ve ended up more devoted to him than to your position.”

               Sweat was a fine sheen over Iwaizumi’s chest now, like he’d just finished a day’s practice bouts. He shook his head slowly, like he could stop every word from his father’s mouth with the sheer rejection he felt. Like a bird underground, he just didn’t fit anywhere else but beside Oikawa. That idiot was home.

               “Sir.” Iwaizumi hesitated, still shaking his head and knowing it was rude but not able to stop. “Father, I can’t be Ushijima’s captain. I can’t leave Oikawa. I can be still be the army’s general, and Aone’s doing a fine job as Ushijima’s captain! You know just as well as I do that he’s the best bodyguard we’ve got, myself included.”

               The General’s eyes flared, and he shoved his son back down into the chair. As Iwaizumi fell so did his heart, because the look in his father’s eyes was resolute. 

               “No, I don’t know that. Aone is an excellent bodyguard when it comes to direct attacks. The best. But a King’s Captain must see the enemy who hasn’t yet stepped out in the light, has to defend from threats besides the physical. A true King’s Captain must be advisor and enforcer, strong and supple. Must gain the respect of the King, and not just in regards to physical strength. Aone is not enough. Only you are. And that is the last I will say on the matter.”

               “Father…”

               The General’s mouth twisted, and Iwaizumi knew the pleading look on his face was uncharacteristic, but he couldn’t help it. If his body weren’t humming with adrenaline his eyes would be stinging. Stinging with tears—he hadn’t cried that he could remember and yet.

               Iwaizumi couldn’t lose Oikawa. He, he couldn’t say why. He just knew he couldn’t.

               The General sighed, placed a much gentler hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Hajime, I know this will be hard for you. But it’s not like I’m banning you from seeing Oikawa. You’ll still be close.”

               Close. The word echoed hollowly in Iwaizumi’s head. Prince and Captain. Childhood friends. Close? Did any of those seem like anywhere near enough to explain what Oikawa Tooru was to him?

               “You’ve got two weeks to tell him.”

               Iwaizumi’s eyes snapped up, horror replacing fear. “You want… I have to tell him?”

               The General’s mouth tightened. “You’ve got two weeks,” he repeated, and his hand fell off Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you alone for now. Feel free to stay here for as long as you need.”

               Then, with curt, steady footsteps, like he hadn’t just ripped Iwaizumi in half, the General left the room.

 

               And Iwaizumi put his face in his hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always imagined Iwa-chan's father would be just an older, grumpier version of him. The old man never grew up with an Oikawa to mellow him out, after all. 
> 
> And, I am s o r r y for the a n g s t to come (งಠ_ಠ)ง


End file.
